


Oceania 1991

by ConstantineXII



Category: 1984 - George Orwell
Genre: Alternate History, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Gen, Politics, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:53:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26256703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstantineXII/pseuds/ConstantineXII
Summary: Seven years after the events of Nineteen Eighty-Four, the endless war rages on. Unbeknownst to the Oceanian leadership, however, a new threat to the status quo is brewing, and to stop it an Inner Party member and a soldier must venture into the heart of enemy territory.
Kudos: 1





	1. Basra

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a crosspost from Fanfiction.net, where I go by nicq98. My goal with this story is to expand the world of George Orwell's 1984, while also complicating and analyzing certain aspects of the setting. Enjoy!

January 3, 1991  
The Mesopotamian Sector

Looking east from Basra, the horizon is dark with smoke. Oil fields are burning out there. For now they remain under enemy control, but the Eurasian high command must not expect that to remain the case for much longer—they’ve gone and torched their wells so that the advancing Oceanians can’t have them.

Captain Jim Anders has been through the Mesopotamian Sector two times already, and he’s never seen anything like this. They didn’t do it late last year in Kuwait, when the Eurasians left behind seventy-six functioning wells, and they certainly didn’t do it in the 1988 campaign, when they ceded the exact same facilities that they’re now destroying. Something has changed. 

Anders watches the conflagration from the top of what used to be a house. Its roof is gone, as are most of the second-storey walls, but there’s still a floor from which he can look across the river. Sounds of hurried voices and truck engines emanate from the surrounding streets; his troops are going block by block, making sure that no Eurasians have stayed behind to cause mischief. A few hundred meters away, on the tallest building still left in this city, flies the newly raised flag of Oceania—black background, fat crimson V, hands clasped above the word “INGSOC”—and down in one of the streets Anders can make out a Minitrue photographer snapping a picture of it. 

He hears footsteps on the stairway behind him. He turns to see his executive officer, First Lieutenant Franco, climbing up onto the second storey with a rifle slung over his shoulder. Franco is quite tall; his black tunic fits him poorly, though the belt and trousers are better tailored. His helmet still has a dent in it from a recent encounter with shrapnel. He’s blond and square-jawed, like he just walked off a poster.

Anders smiles. “What news, comrade?”

“Spoils of war, sir,” he says, reaching out with a fistful of small, dark, oblong fruit. Anders picks one up and scrutinizes it.

“Dates!” He throws it in his mouth. The taste is sweet but mellow, far better than the saccharine tablets that occasionally make their way through the supply lines, and he spits out the pit. “Doubleplusgood, comrade. I haven’t had any since the last time we were in Basra.” 

“We found them in the Eurasian commissary. There’s still that plantation just outside town, so dates were the one thing they had plenty of.”

Anders grabs another, bites a little too enthusiastically, nearly breaks a tooth. He winces. “Collect as many of these as you can, and put them under guard. But I’m sure you have more than fruit to talk about. What of the city?”

“Our quarter is quiet, for now, but apparently there’s some combat in B Company’s sector, and it might spill over into ours.”

“Eurasians?”

“No, natives. Religious fanatics and separatists with stolen guns, best anyone can tell.” 

The Arabs aren’t supposed to be armed. If they had been armed, the Oceanians wouldn’t have been able to take the entire city of Basra with just four companies and six hundred men. This is a doubleplusungood development, and it must be nipped in the bud, lest the entire security of the offensive be jeopardized. 

“You know what to do. Kill anyone with a weapon, search the houses, round up and shoot whoever gets out of line.”

“Right, sir, it’ll be done speedwise.” Franco looks towards the black horizon, far away. The smoke seems to have grown thicker even during the course of this conversation. It looms like an advancing storm, though where stormclouds have definite texture and depth to them, this haze appears hazy, flat, unreal. “What’s going on over there?”

“They torched the wells.”

“They’re doing what, now?”

“It’s as I said, comrade—they intend to deny us use of the oil fields.”

Franco takes off his dented helmet and scratches his head. “But… aren’t they coming back?”

“Evidently not.”

One of the unspoken rules of this war, which has been raging for forty, fifty years—who really knows how long?—is that each side leaves key infrastructure intact. This is for entirely self-serving reasons. While homes, lesser factories, and native populations are easily replaceable, and thus fair game for obliteration, certain structures—docks, uranium mines, in this case oil rigs—would be all but useless if they had to be rebuilt every time they changed hands. No sense in wrecking the wells east of Basra if you’ll recapture them by this time next year. Oceania follows this rule, Eastasia follows it, and Eurasia did, until now.

Franco is about to say something, but he doesn’t get the chance to. Gunfire erupts in the street below them. Someone is shouting in Arabic and spraying bullets on full auto. Acting on instinct, Anders drops to the ground and draws his sidearm, and Franco is not far behind—he goes up behind a wall and angles his rifle into the street. 

“See anything?” Anders asks. He’s not going to put his head over the edge just yet. He didn’t survive two decades in the service by risking his own skin, and he still has a cushy Party desk job to look forward to. 

“Maybe half a dozen Arabs holed up at the end of the street, behind a wrecked truck.” Franco shoulders his rifle and pops off a shot. “I think I got one.”

“And how many of our own?”

A bullet zips past Franco’s head, neatly endorsing Anders’ decision to stay behind cover. “About a dozen, sir. We’re going to win.”

The firefight continues. Judging by pitch and tempo, the rebels have at least two submachine guns, stolen from one side or the other. The return fire, however, is tighter and more disciplined, and after a few seconds the skirmish concludes with a scream of agony, then a final gunshot, then silence. 

Only now does Anders chance a look over the side of the building. He sees a squad of Oceanian troops—black-uniformed, grey-helmeted, varying in skin tone from pale to dark brown—advancing towards the ruined truck Franco mentioned, where swarthy, ragged corpses lie beside their weapons. The living soldiers make only a token effort to loot the bodies; it goes without saying that the Arabs are poor, poorer than the proles, though now that they’ve acquired weapons for themselves the old assumptions might not hold up.

“Sergeant!” Anders calls out from the second storey. The squad’s leader, a fresh-faced young man whom the captain recognizes but does not remember by name, turns to face him and gives a salute—two fists crossed overhead in the shape of a V. 

“Sir! We have lost none of our own men! This is a doubleplusgood victory for Big Brother!”

“Yes indeed, comrade! Can you tell whose weapons they were using?”

The sergeant picks up a submachine gun off the ground, and turns it over in his hands. “It’s not ours! Looks to be of Eurasian make, though I couldn’t tell you much more about it.”

“Thank you, sergeant. Carry on!” Anders dismisses him with a wave, then turns back to Franco. They are both standing tall by the edge of the building; the danger has passed.  
“Well, comrade? What do you make of this?”

“Just like the perfidious Eurasians to arm separatists and religious extremists,” Franco says. 

Actually, it’s not like them at all. This is another of the war’s unspoken rules: in all the far-flung battlefields, from the Sahara to the Malabar Coast to countless Pacific islands, no side may arm the locals. The sweeping offensives of each campaigning season depend on the helplessness of the vast populations caught in the crossfire. They are slaves, good for running the Equatorial Front’s plantations and factories and mines, and to equip them with weapons would make a thorn in your own side as well as your foe’s.  
Thus, under ordinary circumstances, he would assume that the rebels had acquired their arms by blind luck. This is war, after all, and oversights happen. But with oil fields burning in the east, Anders does not believe that. The Eurasians are changing the rules; they’re behaving as if they are leaving Mesopotamia permanently, and their only concern is making life difficult for the advancing Oceanians. 

He ponders this for a short while. Sometimes, he wonders if he’s too perceptive for his own good—high-level views of the war are for the Inner Party command staff, not Outer Party officers like him. He’ll disappear one of these days, if he keeps this up.

Suddenly there’s an explosion down in the street, by the truck. The sergeant and his entire squad disappear in a cloud of dust. A pressure wave washes through the air. Up on the ruined house, Anders hears shrapnel whistling and ducks instinctively, though one fragment catches him in the cheek.

“My legs! Oh God, my legs!” shouts a soldier. His appeal to God is thoughtcrime, but Anders has his own problems, and barely notices. 

More voices shout. They’re other Oceanian soldiers, rushing to the site of the blast. 

Anders, pressed to the ground, coughs and pushes himself up into a crouch. He pulls the fragment out of his cheek. It’s not metal—it’s somebody’s tooth. What are the odds?

“Franco?” Anders coughs again. There’s an awful lot of smoke and atomized plaster in the air. He can hardly see. “Lieutenant? Where have you gone off to?”

Franco is slumped against the remnants of an interior wall. His left eye is a jagged hole, out of which pours a thick stream of blood. It was more than a flying tooth that got him.  
Anders looks back over the side, and there’s no trace of the sergeant. Most of his squad has been dismembered and mutilated. One man clutches the bleeding stumps of his legs, another feels around where his jaw used to be. The rebels rigged up a powerful bomb; they must have hidden it within the truck, attached a timer or a tripwire so that it went off when the Oceanians were close by. They’re clever bastards. 

Anders stands up, dusts himself off, and thanks Big Brother he’s still alive.


	2. Minipax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Members of the Inner Party debate a disturbing new development.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Continuing my slow trickle of crossposts, here is the second chapter of Oceania 1991.

January 18, 1991  
Ministry of Peace, New York

Oceania has always been at war with Eurasia and Eastasia. It has always stood alone. Looking at the world map hanging on the wall of the conference room, Kenneth Mueller sees the simple, eternal truth of that statement, and the absurdity of any other possibilities.  
He is at an emergency Ministry of Peace meeting, with thirteen other members of the Inner Party. They sit around a long hexagonal table in a room almost but not entirely free of dust. The walls are empty and white, save for the map, a clock, and one poster bearing the three chief Party slogans, and there is no telescreen—not even the Thought Police are entrusted with what is discussed here. Incandescent lamps hum overhead, while on the far side a window looks out over an overcast Manhattan day. Few buildings remain from before the bomb went off; the rest of them the Party has rebuilt in its own image, dreary concrete ministries overlooking endless tracts of tenements.  
“I believe we have everybody, except for Finch,” says Anne Calloway, Minister of Peace and Mueller’s immediate superior. She is coming up on her seventies; living that long is not common in the Party, and she is easily the oldest person here, old enough to have seen the great Revolution firsthand. Mueller, twenty-six, is envious. “Nevertheless, we shall begin on schedule, in less than a minute. Finch will face consequences for his tardiness.”  
These fourteen are not a permanent committee, or really any sort of body with officially enumerated powers—rather, they are the collected eminences of New York City, who have come together to discuss a troubling new circumstance. And while they speak for the whole of Oceania, their power is not exclusive. For all anybody knows, there may be similar meetings going on in London, or Buenos Aires, or any of the other semi-capitals where the Ministries have their headquarters.  
Mueller himself is General Director of Military Strategy, Eurasian Sector. He has never been to the Eurasian Sector. Instead he has spent his short career at a desk and on committees, ordering around units half a world away, waging a war he knows is hopeless yet expects to win. Many of the forces under his command probably don’t exist. Many others probably answer to London or Cape Town before New York, making his authority meaningless.  
Next to him sits Calloway, while on the far side sit three representatives from Miniluv, Minitrue, and Miniplenty, here to ensure smooth cooperation between the branches of state. The others at the table are all a scattering of policy experts with vague titles. Mueller knows most of them and hates several in particular.  
Taken as a whole, the fourteen delegates are a patchwork of ages and races, bound together by their black overalls—the uniform of power.  
“It is 13:00, comrades. This meeting is now in session,” announces Calloway, picking up a stack of papers and tapping them against the table to straighten them out. She then looks over her shoulder at a white-garbed servant, standing attentively by a side table, and motions with her finger. “Fitzimmons—wine.”  
The servant approaches and starts silently placing a glass in front of each Inner Party member.  
“May I begin with a brief remark?” says Julia Harris. She’s a thin, blonde-haired woman, one of the policy experts, also one of the people Mueller hates. Her borderline heretical theory of Ingsoc has become mainstream within this city’s Minipax apparatus. Mueller’s faction, which sticks to Ingsoc as Big Brother originally developed it, is in the minority, and close to being pushed out entirely.  
Calloway nods. “You may, Comrade Harris.”  
The servant returns, this time with a bottle of wine. She pours a generous portion into each glass. Mueller recognizes the drink’s sharp, fruity aroma—it’s from the Willamette Valley, the source of the finest wine in all Oceania.  
“Before we get underway,” Harris says. “I would like to emphasize the necessity of Party discipline in dealing with this matter. We must act as a unified whole, without factions.”  
Mueller agrees. Fortunately there are no factions in the Party, and there never have been—its power is absolute, its unity is absolute, it acts as a single organism, it is a consciousness formed from the minds of Mueller and Harris and many, many others. He is the Party, and the Party is him.  
“A worthy sentiment,” says Calloway. She glances around the table. “Further comments?”  
“I am in full agreement with Comrade Harris,” Mueller speaks up. “We are the Party of Big Brother, after all, and our duty is to cooperate as he would expect us to.”  
There they have it: a truce, for the duration of this meeting. This is just a week after Harris’s faction had Mueller’s top ally, one Robert Brecht, reassigned to a dead-end post in the Pacific, and two weeks after gunmen assassinated a Thought Police chief loyal to Harris. Harris and Mueller exchange subtle nods.  
“Very well. Comrade Perkins, start us off, if you will, by explaining the situation to our colleagues from Minitrue, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.”  
Perkins is a rotund man in his late forties. He’s another of the Minipax policy experts, and is very much in Harris’s camp. Among all the Party members he is seated closest to the map on the wall, and he takes advantage of this, picking up a meter stick to indicate points of interest.  
“Right. The reason we’ve all been summoned today is the appearance of certain… irregularities, in the war against Eurasia. Sources around the world report anomalous behavior that cannot be taken as mere coincidence.”  
Mueller sips his drink as he listens. It is an excellent wine, perhaps the finest he’s had since 1989, before the realignment, when the Eurasians sent their best Italian vintage as a gesture of goodwill.  
He immediately wipes that thought out of his mind. Oceania has always been at war with Eurasia, and there was no point at which they would have sent gifts of wine.  
“Airstrip One,” Perkins continues, tapping the former British Isles with his meter stick, “has reported a sudden cessation in rocket bomb attacks.”  
“Not just a decrease?” asks Wade Smith—one of Mueller’s allies. “A full-on cessation?”  
“Starting two months ago, the strikes declined to a frequency of three or four per week, until they stopped entirely. No rocket bombs have fallen on London in thirty-one days.” There are murmurs around the table. “Naturally nobody has gone around spreading this information, even within the Inner Party. I myself only found out recently. Apparently, it has caused many local Party members and even proles to ask inconvenient questions.”  
“They’re going to have to start bombing themselves if the Eurasians won’t keep it up,” mutters the representative from Miniprod.  
“We’ll delegate someone to that when the time comes,” Calloway says. “Incidentally, I would like to point out that it is now 13:05 and there’s no sign of Finch. This is ridiculous.” She glances towards her servant, still standing patiently by the door. “Fitzimmons, go find him.”  
The Ministry of Love representative, Warren, clears his throat. He is a young man with harsh angular features. “Comrade Calloway, if I may have a word with you, for a moment?”  
She nods. Warren stands and circles halfway around the table to meet her, then leans down to whisper in her ear. Mueller is sitting one place away and still can’t make out any of the words.  
“I see,” says the Minister of Peace. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” More whispering. “Terrible excuse. Tell your people not to lose their damn messages next time. Now, is there anyone else I need to worry about? Good. Go back to your seat.”  
Warren withdraws sheepishly, his hands clasped behind his back, while Calloway makes the announcement everybody is expecting.  
“Apparently I was mistaken. I invited only fourteen people to this meeting, and all of them are now present. Proceed.”  
She says it—the Party says it—and it is true. There was never such a person as Finch. Briefly, before he consigns the memory of the man to oblivion, Mueller wonders just what crime he committed. Was it an indiscreet affair with an Outer Party member? Hoarding forbidden literature in his flat? The possibilities are numerous, though if Finch ever reappears at a show trial, it will all boil down to collaboration with the hated, treacherous Goldstein.  
Perkins goes on with the briefing. “According to my sources in Airstrip One, our Inner Party counterparts there have attempted to communicate with the Eurasian Higher Command in France, via the submerged telegraph line. All they received was an assurance that everything was normal.”  
“And besides the rocket bombs, what evidence do we have that anything’s out of the ordinary?” asks Smith.  
“Africa. They have unilaterally withdrawn as far north as Lake Chad, and during their retreat they have ripped apart railway tracks, blown up bridges, generally destroyed every piece of infrastructure they could get their hands on. The same pattern has been repeated in the Mesopotamian Sector—near Basra, they have set fire to an entire oil field.”  
Mueller glances at the map. It shows the situation as it was reported some months ago by the Ministry of Peace, and while it is undoubtedly more accurate than nearly any other map in Oceania, it does not represent ever-changing facts on the ground. Instead he must imagine the enemy’s retreat through the Sahara, the long withdrawal along the line of the Tigris and Euphrates.  
“Scorched-earth tactics,” he says. “That’s what these are. But why?”  
“They intend to keep us from following,” Harris replies. “For whatever reason, our Eurasian foes have decided to withdraw forces from the front lines, and they are putting space between us and them as they retreat.”  
Mueller frowns. “Which raises the question, then, of why they’re withdrawing.”  
“For that,” says Perkins, “we may look to the European theater for answers. Airstrip One has sent reconnaissance jets over France and Germany, and those that returned reported unusual activity: movement of Eurasian troop columns, fires in urban areas, even a field of wrecked tanks near Brussels. There is… well, there appears to be some sort of unrest going on.”  
More murmurs, and worried glances around the table. Mueller had some idea about the rocket bombs, and the withdrawals along the front, but he has not put together the pieces until now.  
“The Eurasians are coming apart,” says the representative from Minitrue, quietly.  
“They can’t just collapse,” Smith says. “They can’t. They have the same system of government as ours, and we know the system is infallible. Or are we all just going to embrace crimethink and call Ingsoc into question?”  
Harris shakes her head. “Their system is collapsing. Ours isn’t. Clearly, there’s a difference between the two.”  
Treacherous heretic though she is, she’s right. No such thing as a civil war would happen on Oceanian soil, not in a thousand years, a million. The power of Oceania and the Party is absolute. Not a mind exists that they do not control utterly—and when one controls the mind, one controls reality itself.  
“Who else knows about this?” asks Mueller.  
“Our counterparts in Airstrip One certainly do,” says Perkins. “I’m not sure about the other capitals. And on the front lines, our troops and generals are starting to figure it out.”  
“Not a word of it will leave this room,” Calloway announces. “All war activities will continue as normal, and no propaganda will reflect the changing situation. Warren, I want the Thought Police to swiftly vaporize anybody who puts together what’s going on.”  
The Miniluv ambassador nods curtly. This, Mueller thinks, will be a good opportunity to weed out those in the bureaucratic strata—Inner Party and Outer Party alike—whose mastery of reality is lacking. It’s as effective as, say, changing Oceania’s enemy from Eurasia to Eastasia, and eliminating those who cannot properly adjust to the change.  
Not that such a reversal has ever happened. Oceania has always been at war with both Eastasia and Eurasia.  
Warren steeples his fingers. “How about Eastasia? Have they shown any reaction to this?”  
Harris answers, now. “It’s been six months since we last heard anything through diplomatic channels. Minipax Canberra might have more information, but we hardly speak to them, either.”  
Aside from New York and Airstrip One, bound closely by historical ties, the various departments of Oceania communicate seldom beyond a very basic level—they are locally administered, after all, and with travel as restricted as it is, there’s very little need to cross-reference vaporizations or rectifications or even the finer points of Ingsoc theory. A prominent Party member might be an unperson in Seattle and a celebrated war hero in the archives of Cape Town. There is no contradiction, because the Party is always right.  
“The question is, what do we do with this information?” Calloway says. “Doubtless the Airstrip One Ministry of Peace is working on its own response, and we have to hold up our end, too. My inclination is to send an Inner Party member—one of the people in this room—out to the front lines, to investigate the situation firsthand and then report back.”  
“There are already a few Inner Party members stationed on the Equatorial Front,” Mueller says. “Why not conscript one of them, have him radio back to us?”  
Harris speaks up. “That’s not nearly secure enough. We can’t broadcast this development by radio, even encrypted, and we also cannot trust some Party official we haven’t even met, halfway around the world. I am in favor of Comrade Calloway’s proposal.”  
“Let us put this to a vote, then,” Calloway says. She doesn’t technically need to—she outranks everyone else here—but it’s always valuable to know where other Party members stand, so that they may be monitored and perhaps retaliated against according to their choices. “The question is whether we shall dispatch a representative from this group to the front lines—say, Africa or Mesopotamia—to further investigate the seeming collapse of the Eurasian military. All in favor?”  
Several Party members raise their hands immediately, including Calloway. That decides it. The rest follow suit, making a unanimous vote, and the motion passes—nobody dared risk reprisal.  
“It is agreed, then,” Calloway says.  
Harris looks straight at Mueller. He can’t tell, but it seems she’s smiling, slightly. “Allow me to propose a modification to the measure,” she says. “We should dispatch one of our own to Africa, and another to Mesopotamia, so that we may gain a view of the situation at both fronts. I nominate Smith for Africa and Mueller for Mesopotamia.”  
Preposterous. Mueller expects the proposal to be vetoed immediately. Calloway has hitherto stayed out of the factional war, and there is no way she would agree to such an obviously partisan action as sending Mueller and his top ally to the ends of the Earth, far away from any relevance in the power struggle.  
Calloway nods expressionlessly. “Yes, this is a reasonable proposal. And I am certain Smith and Mueller are well suited to the task.”  
Mueller stares at her. She and Harris must have colluded beforehand, deciding in some back room of the Ministry to neatly whittle away at the dissenting faction, and doubtless Harris has offered some political favor in exchange.  
“If I may offer my view, comrade,” Mueller speaks up, “I believe this is a mistake. I am needed here, in New York, directing the war effort against Eurasia—not puttering about in foxholes and trenches.”  
“Yet that is precisely why you must go,” Harris says. “You would combine an awareness of the overall situation with facts on the ground, which no other Party member is in a position to do.”  
“Comrade Calloway…”  
She doesn’t look at him. “I think it would be best if you went, Comrade Mueller.”  
The representatives from the other three Ministries sit by quietly, unwilling to get caught up in a conflict that isn’t, after all, their department.  
Who will be left to oppose Harris? Ten people, maybe, and all of them are likely to fold with Mueller and his top lieutenant out of the country. Then the battle will be lost. Goldsteinian heresies will reign in the New York Ministry of Peace, thanks to this latest treason by Calloway.  
But the Party has decided where his skills are best deployed, and since he is the Party, united and infallible, wasn’t the decision to some extent his?  
“Very well.” He shoots a glare at Harris. “Where, precisely, am I to go?”  
“Your choice,” Calloway says. “Wherever along the Mesopotamian Front you think will yield the most answers.”  
“And when will I leave?”  
“Also your choice. But I’d say no later than three days from now.”  
Not long enough to make the appropriate arrangements for his absence, which is probably by design. Calloway knows she is destroying his position within the Ministry of Peace. By the end of the mission, whenever that is, he will have lost key contacts, political capital, and, most importantly, time.  
Mueller isn’t so powerless, however, that he cannot strike back. He has enough fuel left in the political machine to take Calloway and Harris down with him, if he must fall. He will set the next blow into motion the moment he steps out of the Ministry of Peace.  
“Very well, Comrade Calloway. I’ll see what I can find out.”


End file.
